


Tomorrow

by prizewinningfruitcake



Series: Smitten [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 01:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prizewinningfruitcake/pseuds/prizewinningfruitcake
Summary: Halsa didn't expect to live this long. What if she lives even longer?





	Tomorrow

She’s been crying. She barely noticed through the pain and exhaustion; the tears mixed with sweat and nearly disappeared, but her breath is coming out in sobs. 

It shouldn’t have upset her like this. She doesn’t care what Wynne thinks about anything, let alone who she chooses to sleep with. It’s just something about the way she speaks, that gentle measured voice, makes Halsa feel so...stupid. Like she’s in school and not sure what page everyone’s looking at.

“I was born fighting. It’s all I know how to do.” 

Halsa said that sometimes, in the ring, before or sometimes in the middle of fights. That, or “Death to shems!” depending on the location. No one was ever much opposed to her signing up to fight in the human crowds; they liked to boo almost as much as they liked to cheer. And they didn’t always boo. Often she drew some underdog bets as the Alienage Girl. 

It wasn’t untrue, that she knew how to fight. Her punches carried deceptive weight. She was better, though, at taking a beating, at being hard to knock down. She could tire out the elven boys who didn’t want her there, could take advantage of the humans who thought her out of her depth. And it was always good for a show - win or lose, the tavern owners always had her back.

It wasn’t the only thing she could do, but fighting was the only thing Halsa was ever any good at. 

So here she is, fighting a fight she can’t win. Bloodying her knuckles and doing precious little damage to her opponent. Stupid.

“Tearing yourself up, huh?” Oghren growls from behind her. 

Halsa lowers her fists, wipes the sweat and grime and tears from her face. A little sheepish. She didn’t expect anyone to catch her wailing on a tree bare-knuckled. “Just wanted to hit something” is all she offers. 

“I get it,” he says with a shrug, “I used to wanna hit something all the time when I was your age.”

Halsa groans, “What is it about being old that you can’t shut up about it.”

“Well, you have to make up for all the aches and pains,” he says, drawing his flask from his belt, “but I was gonna say a little of this might help,” 

“Now you’re talking,” she takes a swig. Oghren’s liquor burns like nothing else she’s tasted, ripping its way down to assault her stomach. He laughs at her face, and takes a pull himself. She has no idea how he manages more than one sip of that stuff. 

They settle on a fallen log, sitting quietly, not ready to go back to camp. Oghren breaks the silence, “she’s not all bad, you know.”

“Who, Wynne?” Halsa snaps, “Sent you to talk to me, did she. Can’t even leave me alone for one night.”

“Calm down, I just came out here to piss. And no one had to tell me anything; you girls have got some lungs on you.”

They had shouted. Only Halsa at first, but Wyn had gotten loud later on too. 

“She talks to me like a child,” Halsa says, crossing her arms, “she thinks she knows more than me because she’s old, but that’s bullshit, she was locked up in a tower til now. What does she know about it.”

“Aw, she doesn’t want you to get your heart stomped on, that’s all,” he says, “Maybe she’s wrong, but she’s alright.”

“She doesn’t want Alistair to get his heart stomped. She didn’t say nothing about mine.”

“Don’t be dense, she meant you too. I’ve seen my way though a few of these things now, everybody gets hurt.”

“See,” Halsa drops her bruised hands into her lap, “that’s why I’m confused. Probably we’re just gonna die anyway, or at least I am. Why should we give a fuck?”

“Tell you this,” Oghren lifts his flask again, “Long time ago, I got into it with this big ol rotter in a pub. He goosed my wife’s ass, so I goosed his, you know. He didn’t like that; he broke a bottle and sliced me good. I looked at all that blood and thought, ‘well, this is it.’ Ever since then, I’ve thought, ‘can’t be long now.’ Hasn’t happened yet. Just keep getting back up.”

“I already wasn’t supposed to live this long,” Halsa says, “I thought they were just gonna cut my head off back in Denerim.”

“Can’t bank on that kinda thing.” 

Halsa laughs. “What a shame.” 

Oghren thumps her on the back, something he does often, "It's getting dark," he says.

So they go back to the clearing where the fire is waiting. She searches out Alistair, settling in next to him in the warmth. She puts her arms around his waist, hiding her sore hands behind him. The booze glows from within her as he pulls her closer, a strange fiery feeling in her throat.

They would still be Grey Wardens if they came out of this, whatever that means once there’s no Blight; they’d still be poisoned, cursed. But maybe that would mean they’d be left alone. Saving Ferelden had to be worth some goodwill. Enough goodwill to get a little house and set up for themselves, maybe. Not normal but close enough.

The fantasy stops there. Probably tomorrow they’ll be burned to a crisp by the Archdemon, or maybe something more humble - catch a bandit’s arrow, get eaten by a bear. It’ll be done. 

Oghren is right, though, you can’t bank on it. She wonders what Alistair would say if she asked him, if she painted her silly little picture of a house outside the city for the two of them. He says he can’t think of life without her, but life is right now. Tomorrow is a matter of circumstance. She would ask, but the words stick in her throat. She waits in her tent, tangled in his limbs, for tomorrow.


End file.
